


ten, asymmetrically

by TheRangress



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:44:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRangress/pseuds/TheRangress
Summary: Renarin Kholin sees what never was.





	

_ten_

_the prince_

 

Ten, he takes up the sword.

His whole life he’s been called a natural, groomed and trained every day to honor his name as the Blackthorn’s son. There is nothing he’s ever loved more than a sword in his hand, nothing more like him than victory and glory.

He is an eager student, quick and obedient, top of his class, and his father laughs, swinging his son up in his arms.

His pride is what Renarin fights for.

* * *

 

_the prophet_

Ten, he is forbidden the sword.

He screams and he cries, but his father is adamant. His blood weakness is too much of a danger. He holds Renarin close, whispers apologies and promises that he still loves his son.

Once he’s out of sight, Renarin weeps until he is dry of tears. His entire life has been spent sword in hand, praised, promised that one day he will bear his father’s Blade into battle. It was his love, his destiny, his life. The highest Calling a man could have.

Without that, he is nothing.

* * *

 

 

_eleven_

 

_the prince_

He runs around the palace halls with Adolin, toy swords in hand, remembering all the things Zahel has taught him.

Sometimes, he even wins.

* * *

 

_the prophet_

He’s given up hope, finally.

He throws the wooden sword at the wall, and his father kisses the splinters from his hands and throws away the broken pieces.

* * *

 

 

_twelve_

 

_the prince_

He’s a laughing boy, scuffling around outside school with the others. Friends.

He’s never doubted himself, he’s never felt alone. He could ask for nothing more in life. He is nothing more than a carefree boy, just like any other.

He’s raring to fight, but everyone’s telling him he has all the time in the world. He does. He’s too young to understand, too young to care, and his father laughs because of course this is his son. This is the boy he’s always wanted.

“Enjoy being a child while you can, Renarin,” he said. “You’ll have your taste of blood and glory sooner than you think.”

* * *

 

_the prophet_

He stares down, the taste of blood fresh in his mouth.

Sneers come from the other boys, and another blow is thrown. Renarin stumbles, and Renarin falls, and he says nothing. He is limp and still and helpless, and they leave him alone.

Nobody comes to find him. He sits alone outside the school, fists clenched too late. It’s like the ardents say, after all, like he’s known for years.

He is unworthy. He is hated. He is nothing.

“I had a seizure,” Renarin lies to his father, wiping blood from his lip.

“Did you try to fight again?”

No answer comes.

“You know you can tell me anything, son,” Dalinar says, holding his son tight to him, the son who comes home far too often broken and bruised and bloody. “You know that I love you, no matter what.”

Renarin keeps his mouth shut.

The next day, he slips away from the other students and hides in the streets of Kholinar. No one will miss him.

He thinks about never coming home.

* * *

 

 

_thirteen_

 

_the prince_

Gavilar dies. The war begins, and they go to the Shattered Plains.

* * *

 

_the prophet_

Renarin stays behind.

* * *

 

 

_sixteen_

_the prince_

The Thrill races through him, first blood and second and third falling to his Blade until he cannot keep count. A Shardbearer is a force of nature, and Renarin is no different.

This is truly the Blackthorn’s son on the Shattered Plains.

He’s barely pulled his helm off before his father and brother pull him into their arms and muss up his hair. Little Renarin is all grown up.

This is where he was always meant to be.

It’s as if his life has finally begun.

* * *

 

_the prophet_

He’s still waiting behind, burning prayers. He can do nothing else.

* * *

 

 

_nineteen_

_the prince_

When he charges onto the plateau to save Elhokar, it’s noble, not suicide.

He doesn’t have visions.

He doesn’t see Alethkar burning, and he doesn’t see his family die. He knows nothing of the Everstorm. The Almighty never cursed him.

He’s been holding Shardblades for years, and never once heard a scream.

* * *

 

_the prophet_

Glys tells him that all the Knights Radiant are broken. That brokenness is what gives him the strength to stay silent as he carries the screaming Blade. It gives him nobility, kindness, bravery. It makes him a hero.

“Well, maybe,” he snaps, the bitterness of tears on his tongue, “maybe I’d rather not be _broken_.”

It couldn’t be helped, now.

He could never have that other life.

* * *

 

 

_twenty_

_the prophet_

He finds Kaladin, alone in Urithiru. He’s looking out the window, but turns when he hears Renarin’s footsteps.

He smiles.

“Do you ever wish,” the words spill out, “that things had been different? So you wouldn’t be a Knight Radiant? You wouldn’t be broken?”

It’s a while before Kaladin speaks. He leans out into the window, then turns his head back to Renarin. “Always.”

He could have asked his father, but he’s too afraid of the answer and too practiced in hiding weakness from him. Shallan… Shallan he fears. He only speaks to her if he has to.

“If you could trade,” Renarin asks, hanging back and clenching his fists, “if you could change it so you would be that Kaladin… would you?”

“No,” he says. Kaladin turns, and Renarin’s gaze darts down. “And if you could change things, Renarin, so you were never broken?”

His mouth was almost open to say yes. He would give anything for those years of his life back.

Stop.

That other Renarin never joined Bridge Four.

That other Renarin spared no thought for them. No thought for any of these friends he had made. No thought for Kaladin.

“You’re stronger than me, son,” his father had said, and taken his Blade, but with Glys— he would be a Shardbearer again.

“No,” Renarin says, raising his head.

Kaladin nods, slowly.

“So many would have died if I had gotten that life.”

“I only hope that someday I can say the same.”

Kaladin exhales, and it’s almost laughter. “I think you will,” he says.

Renarin steps out his side, and looks out the window with him. “Even if,” he says, hands gripping tight to the stone, “even if we must be broken, perhaps… perhaps someday we can be fixed.”

“I hope so.”

* * *

 

_the prince_

Renarin can’t imagine who he’d be in that other life after the Everstorm. He’s glad. He can be free of the lies he told himself.

He lets go.

Who he is, here and now— that can be enough.

 


End file.
